Tagged: Oral Sex

The chaos of its unrelenting want. The blur of lips and tongues. My body jolted back to life with each connection of wet hunger and gleaming skin.

Your cock deep inside me.

The thickness of your flesh and the cry from my lips and the heat of my melting cunt. The fusion of our bodies and the flavour of your soul on my tongue.

This is all it takes. Two seemingly simple movements, two mere moments of pleasure.

And I am enslaved.

And I am yours.

I could spill thousands of words on each erotic detail, on every sharp intake of breath, on every touch that reduces our skin to shivering gooseflesh. But it wouldn’t be enough. They are never enough.

Because without you, without your body against mine, without my body against yours, without your fingers wound in my tresses guiding my mouth to your glistening shaft, without the genuflecting woman before you who aches to worship every inch of your flesh, without the fire of your voice on my skin, without my legs around your waist as you fuck me, without the intimacy of our kiss and the carnal savagery of this lust, without your come anointing my most sacred place, the words are nothing, nothing but ghosts and echoes.

Tell me how you fantasised about me when you were fucking other men.
Tell me how it excited you, how it affected your lovemaking.

Where do I begin?

Do I begin with the way you’re on my mind, in my body, the way you haunt my sexual cravings and fantasies?

Do I begin with the seemingly innocent, initial meetings with these men, with my complex meditations and responses, with the way my thoughts strayed to your voice as they chatted and laughed, with the way I wondered about your scent, your cologne, the unique warmth of your skin as I sat mere inches from theirs, as my concentration drifted from them to you and back again, as I finally allowed myself to linger on the image of their touch on my nakedness?

Do I begin with the way your phantom whispers to me, whispers into my ear, sinks to his knees and growls directly into the heat between my supple thighs, that fiery wetness that craved you as I flirted and plotted future meetings and assignations with others?

Will that be too much? The knowledge that you’re with me always, taunting me, plucking at my curiosity, the need to know and taste – in every conceivable way – each glorious inch of your flesh? Even as my body is caressed by another? Even as I’m being tongued, split and enslaved by the cocks of other men?

Or… will the thought ultimately arouse you? Will it lick at your skin, wind its way into your flesh, sink into your bones? Will it quicken your pulse, tense your thighs, knot your stomach? Will it begin to breathe life into your cock, thickening and hardening your shaft, setting an ache in your balls that can only be sated by devouring me, fucking me, possessing me until I’m a writhing, trembling mess?

So, where do I begin?

Since I’m struggling to find that entry point, I’ll begin with the most obvious of beginnings.

With my naked body. With the act of adorning it for them.

Will it please you to know I selected with care my lingerie, my outfit, my stilettos, according to your taste?

Because I did just that, singling out the pieces you adore, the gossamer silks and laces that you’ve caressed in your mind and with your gifted hands, the ones you’ve imagined fingering, teasing, destroying, reducing to nothing more than shreds while you lie in your bed, shrouded in your darkness and the night.

I dressed my silken and perfumed body in the sheerest of black lingerie, slipped into the finest stockings, often hold-ups with deep, lace bands that offset my fairness, and allowed them to marvel, to memorise, to explore. I encouraged them to slowly tease up the hem of my skirt, remember the contrast of skin and silk. It took little persuasion as I moved from my place alongside them on the sofa and straddled their legs, as they pinned me to the cold and unforgiving wall, my wrists bound with their hands above my head. They touched me everywhere, lightly, roughly, with a gluttony that buckled my knees, drained me of the power of speech and flushed my cheeks with a speed that continues to surprise me.

And as they fingered the sodden gusset of my panties, as they pinched my nipples through the fabric, as they eased down the cups and took my pert breast into their groaning mouths, I thought of you. Each and every time, I wondered how your touch would differ, how your fingers would taunt me, how you would brush your thumbs and palms over my pale, pink halos to feel them stiffen to aching, rosy peaks, how you would nudge aside my thong and place your ravenous lips and tongue to my dripping cunt, how you would passionately kiss my sex, my hungry clitoris as you would my mouth.

Even as my body responded to their ministrations, I thought of you. Even as they scooped me into their arms and carried me into the bedroom, placed me in front of the mirror or onto the bed, I pictured you, craved you, needed you here with us. With me.

In my bedroom… you were a permanent fixture.

My voyeur. My beautiful voyeur.

Seated in a plush chair in the corner, watching with the kind of intent that sees the rest of the world melting away.

You devoured each scene with your gaze, your eyes following, often anticipating, the path of their hands as they revealed yet more of my soft and delicate body, as they grasped sensually my throat and caressed the line from its delicate beat to the sweet hollows of my hips, resting momentarily on the insides of my trembling thighs before spreading my stockinged legs wide to expose me, to bare my most intimate place to their desiring eyes, their ravaging fingers, their unrelenting thirst.

And the moment their hard cocks finally – finally – cleaved me open and filled me, it was everything I hungered for and yet, it was never quite enough.

They buried themselves inside me, my hips rising up for more, my lover murmuring unconsciously, growling over and again in time with each of his thrusts, “Fuck… fuck… fuck… your… pussy… your… sweet… pussy… is… so… fucking… addictive…” as my sex clutched at him, milked him from within. But I flooded my sex, his cock, the bed as I craved for a taste of you. Ached to feel you so deep neither one of us could speak or breathe.

I hungered for the way you take me, the way you possess this sweet cunt.

My cunt. Your cunt.

Fuck, how it yearned for you. Pulsed at the vision of you as I was overcome by the sensation of him. As he drove into me from behind, as my back arched and each orgasm crashed over me, my hands gripping at the sheets corrupted by hours of our lust, I imagined you stepping out of the shadows, your ghostly figure turned flesh and blood, climbing onto the bed, the mattress sinking under your weight, the tender brush of your hand on my cheek and then your finger softly titling up my chin, your cock the gift, the prize, the offering, your thick and oiled glans sliding slowly between my full lips, my tongue licking languidly then furiously, in pace with the other man’s dominating strokes so you could both fill me and mark me with your seed.

I wanted you in so many ways, I’ve lost track and count – the seductive preface of your lips on the curve of my nape, your reflection in the mirror as you bend me to your will, your face etched with pleasure as you plunge yourself past that mouth-watering point of resistance, our bodies pressed together so tight we longer know or care where we begin and end, your fingers digging into my hips, my nails raking your back, your mouth, your kiss, the power of your thrusts, your voice, your commands, the crack of your hand on my arse, your fists overflowing with my untamed tresses, your tongue lapping at the sweat in the small of my back, the tangle of our gleaming limbs, the symphony of our ragged breaths, the sight of your cock emerging slick from my newly-fucked cunt, and your come, your come… everywhere.

In those moments, I wanted it all; I wanted you there, to join us, to feed my darkest, clandestine desires. I wanted you there, I want you here and now, because the mere thought of you incites my desire, intensifies my pleasure, overwhelms me, mind, body and soul.

How did you phrase it last night when we spoke?

“I am excited at the prospect of being your partner in crime. I enjoy fantasising about being a participant, even a fulcrum, in your exploration of your baser, more decadent, perhaps hitherto secret, desires.”

Yes, yes. This wanton temptress yearned for you in those moments as that co-conspirator, accomplice and pivot. As her pivot. As my fulcrum.

But I have to admit that the very thing I longed for most in those moments was your focus, your selfishness, your dominance, your need to pry me away from men who were nothing more than proxies, your stand-ins, your need to wrench me from their voracious attentions to seize me as your own, to tenderly wash away their trace and fuck me, make love to me, to charge me with your sensual and carnal yearnings, to fill me with your uncut cock, with your lifeblood, with your seed, to imbue my skin with your scent, my lips and tongue with your flavour.

I wanted you to possess me completely, utterly. I wanted you to destroy me and piece me back together. I yearned for you and you alone to possess that untouched piece of me, to indelibly imprint yourself in my flesh, in my body’s memory.

I still do.

But this you know, all too well.

Now… Tell me. Does this please you? Does this knowledge leave you craving to make me your lover, your cock whore again, to reclaim me and mark me as yours once more? Does my confession leave you aching to give yourself to me?

I need your mouth on every inch of my shivering skin, on the rosy peaks of my breasts, on the delicate hollow of my hips.

I need your mouth on my cunt.

I need you to kiss me, lick me, devour me with ravenous abandon until I come – hot and hard – on your tongue.

And once your lips and beard are sodden with my lust, I need you to slide your naked cock deep inside my secret flesh. I need you to take and fuck and own this dripping sex until I moan and whimper, until I curse and invoke the almighty, until I scream over and again your name, until you fear the thrusts of the untamed animal possessing his prey might tear her shreds.

I need your mouth; I need you. I need it all so desperately I can barely think or breathe or live.

You must know by now just how my body craves you, just how maddening and intense my hunger for you.

I hear your voice, my gaze falls upon your face and your body, and my cunt betrays me each and every time, releasing the flood with the sound of your sigh, with your slightest touch, with the revelation of your cravings, with your deep and devastating kiss.

Tell me, can you feel my heat? Can you feel the molten desire soaked into the ebony lace? Can you feel the wetness as you slide your thumb along the fine filigree from my mons to my cleft, as you slowly ease the fused fabric from my obscenely smooth and scarlet flesh to taunt me, to stroke my pouting lips, to tease the throbbing ache of my clitoris?

How do I taste? Am I just as heady, just as blistering, just as sweet as I was the other day when I came hotly in your mouth, moaning and writhing and pleading for your cock, for you to fuck me, as you fed off the succulence of my tight little cunt like a starved and merciless beast?

How do I taste? Do I taste like your wanton lover in heat? Like your perfect submissive? Like your sublime cock whore? Do I taste like I’m yours?

You must know. You must.

And if you still doubt me, all you need do is glide your hard, thick, dripping disbelief along every curve of my naked and ravenous body for the proof.

“I love the way you use that word in your writing. I become instantly hard just seeing it glowing on the screen. So many women fear it, are repelled by it, but not you. Not you.”

I can’t help but smile slyly at his admission.

He leans forward in an attempt to keep our salacious discussion at a discreet level as we sit in a quiet basement restaurant a stone’s throw from a four-top of suits indulging in a boozy weekday lunch and lingering gazes that are quite obviously undressing my lithe body, slowly but surely, one fine garment at a time.

“I can sense just how it excites you. It’s palpable. I feel the fire of your flesh radiating as I read. Each time I see the word, I think about your body, your uninhibited desire and wonder…about the parts of you shielded, unseen.”

My smile bursts open, a mixture of warmth and momentary shyness, as the blush blooms high on my cheeks. I know for a fact my clear blue eyes are blazing because he is now transfixed, and much like our dining companions to my left, unashamedly staring, his look languidly roaming from these eyes to the full mouth rouged scarlet to the contour of my breasts and the beauty spots underneath the collarbone he aches to lightly kiss and trace, all memorised in minute detail from the photographs I share.

“Now that we’re sitting here together – finally – and I can see you and feel your heat and smell the hint of your perfume from across the table, all I crave is the opportunity to hear your sultry voice say it.”

I mirror his gesture and move that little bit closer, my hands caressing the edge of the table directly in front of me before my fingers dance along the wooden frame to clutch at each periphery. My back straightens, elongates, the small arching ever so slightly as my sex pulses against the panties and the tightest denim I own. Unconsciously, I cross my legs, press my thighs together and grind myself into the chair. Dressed in a midnight black balconette and bordered by a complementary cashmere knit, my pert breasts rise and fall with each hot breath. His gaze wanders again, taking me in, landing at last on my hands, on the tips now a mere inch from his own.

I part my mouth, unsealing it with the smallest of sighs. My tongue licks along the edge of the fleshy bottom lip before I speak. The corners of my eyes and the long ebony lashes uphold my mischievous smile.

It’s his turn to grin with a wickedness that lights his entire face.

“Which word?”

I ask the question softly, a little coyly.

He doesn’t buy my stalling tactic for a minute. While the anticipation is maddening, it is also arousing and thickening his glans, out of sight under the table, in a way he can barely control. That thought alone leaves me ravenous, lustful, wanton. In response, my tips caress the grain of the wood, drawing long, fleshy lines as I imagine the curve of his straining sex trapped in its own denim prison, the sound of the metal teeth as I glide down his zip, the lurch of his naked shaft as it meets the cool air, the ridges and veins and the scent of his desire and the pearl of precum begging to be smeared by my thumb, begging to be brought to my mouth, suckled and savoured.

He regards me again as I hesitate.

He’s waited two years; he can certainly wait another minute.

“Beautiful minx, won’t you say it for me?”

The teasing and imploring softness in his voice leaves me vulnerable, weak. I can feel my core beginning to melt. But shrugged shoulders are my only reply. My eyes continue to beam; my lips are under strict instruction to hold their ground.

“So… Is this the way we’re playing it?”

Another shrug and a shake of my head and wild mane is all the answer I provide.

“Say it.”

With this simple phrase, his playful tone drains away. All of a sudden, there’s an edge in his voice. A dominant edge. An edge that has filtered through our communiqués on numerous occasions, leaving me more inflamed than I could readily admit.

The small triangle of diaphanous silk covering my mound is without warning sodden as the idea of his possession releases the flood from within, as the visual of being roughly taken by him from behind, in front of these men – his hands tearing my clothing to shreds, my jeans pushed over my hips, down my slender thighs and past my knees to settle chaotically on the tops of my stiletto ankle boots, his digits pinching my crimson nipples inside the lace remnants as he towers over me, fucking me hard and deep, his sex emerging slick and shiny with each decisive thrust – momentarily blinds me.

“Say it.”

My eyebrow arches in defiance and just as quickly yields and relaxes.

“Say it.”

I shiver in response. He is reducing me to a trembling submissive, to a little kitten. And he knows it.

“Say it. Now.”

My heart pounds, I shift in my seat, my eyes widen.

“Cunt.”

I whisper the word into the ether between us. His breath catches in his throat.

“Cunt.”

With this utterance, he visibly shudders. I have clawed back a little of my control.

“Cunt.”

Leaning back in his chair, he stifles a groan, acutely aware of the public space in which we find ourselves as well as his need to give in to his own touch, to the passions of his flesh, to his desire for me.

Even through the aroma of the Mediterranean fare drifting from the open kitchen behind me, I can smell, almost taste, his arousal; I can feel the heat radiating up through his trousers. His scent is so overwhelming that the thought of his pulsating meat instantly waters my mouth and cunt in equal measure.

Yet I rein myself in as I sense the proximity of his defeat and undoing. The sweat prickling his brow and the clenched fists resting on his tensing thighs are all the encouragement I require.

“My sweet little cunt aches for… your cock.”

This time he exhales with force, his breath intertwined with a simple “Fuck” that lashes my sweet little cunt like a live wire. The pounding ache spreads through my entire body with a strength that sees my own skin glowing with the sheen of desperation.

As I watch his craving rise up and take hold, as I watch him sublimating the need to grab and stroke his burnished glans then and there with a roughness of hand, running his palm over his beard, down the strong curve of his neck, his fingers eventually clawing and clutching at his nape, another series of images assault me: the chair toppling as I stand in haste; my slight figure hovering over his six foot plus frame; the large hand on my hip as I straddle his legs; his digits sliding into the border of my jeans, fingering the drenched lace fused to my bright flesh; my nakedness gleaming under the lights and his mouth engulfing, devouring my cunt, his lips sucking my clit, my body trembling, screaming his name as I come hotly on his tongue.

Our eyes meet and I smile openly, somewhat brazenly. The temptress in me emerges. The kitten will keep for another day.

“Cock.”

He is putty in my hands. And he knows it.

“I also love cock. I love the way it shapes and fills my mouth, the way it eases my soft, pouting lips apart, the way these lips lushly wrap themselves around that single…delectable…vowel.”

He turns to meet our neighbours’ stares. Judging by his smirk, our entire conversation has been overheard. One of the men shifts, planting his gaze firmly upon me. Even as I feel it burning into the side of my face, my eyes don’t stray from my man.

“I love the way it sounds out, the air thick with a masculine potency once it’s released, the way my voice can vary it, the way I can feel it thickening, engorging with speed and urgency, the way I can taste it on my tongue, its slick, salty tang, its sweetness sating my feminine hunger, the way I can milk it, lusciously lick the head of the word before ravenously consuming it, gliding it slowly down my throat, swallowing it, fucking it with the fervour of my want, my blistering breath.”

At last, I turn to acknowledge the four-top. I stretch out my hands on the flat of the table, a silent call for his teasing touch, for his repossession. The temptress and the kitten are duly rewarded.

These lips, they long to part but not to speak; they yearn to unseal the warmth within, to savour, worship, to devour every curve, every throbbing vein, every silken hollow, every morsel of your flesh, every pearl of cream, every drop glistening, to brush softly along the bronzed gleam of your skin, teasing, coaxing, taking you to the very edge, whispering, sighing into you nothing but desire pure and sensual, nothing but this carnal passion’s heated breath, the maddening craving words can never quite grasp and hold, the need to taste your sweetness, to feed upon your musk, drawing you in completely, drowning willingly in your scent, your libations, your come, kissing up between your thighs, licking languidly the long, muscular line to the torso sculpted and dressed in the black wiry curls these fingers ache to caress, to the hard thick cock lurching violently at the merest hint of this slippery little point, the hips, the cock reaching up, reaching out for more, for more of this rapacious tongue, for more of this scarlet kiss, for more of the hot clutching wetness you know a sign of the true hunger pulsating cruelly between my legs, the other lips plump and hungry for the merging this exquisite act inspires, the other fiery gloss soaking in blushing waves the finest of satins and laces, the most ordinary of cottons, overflowing the bounds and drenching the tops of my thighs with their want, with this cock lust, with my need for your meat, for your body beneath me, for the arms that will possess me and place me, for the hands that will assert their strength and guide me onto the naked uncut flesh impatient to impale me to the moaning hilt, for the man that will fuck me with a sensuous brutally, that will fuck me hard, that will fuck me hard into a breathtaking silence, that will fuck me hard back into the blare, that will fuck me hard until we scream, until we break.

The days, the weeks have faded away and yet the visions that rush past my eyes, the sensations that assault then course through my body take me back as if it was only yesterday.

So overwhelmed, so seized by this torrent, I can barely form an utterance with either lips or pen. And even in this rare moment when the words have chosen to grace me with their presence, I am at a loss; I am dumbstruck, unable to fix upon a point, a look, a stroke, a caress, a thrust, a soft swell, a detail, a beginning.

Where do I begin? Where do I begin?

Do I begin with that night, with the morning after, with the season and the oppressive heat that boiled mercury, blistered bitumen, melted bricks and mortar, with the heat that radiated through the day and long after the sunset, the heat that prickled my newly bathed and perfumed skin, my once fair flesh golden and gleaming as I impatiently waited for you to weave your way through the peak-hour traffic?

With your knock on my door, with the moment you crossed the threshold, with your grin, my smile, our momentary shyness, with our first kiss, deep, devouring, urgent, with the way our hungry lips and tongues immediately erased the miles that had kept us apart for an aeon, with the change in erotic tempo as I stopped to recover my sight, my reach, my breath, this gaze meeting yours, wandering tenderly over your face, these fingers sensually sliding up the curve of your neck, finding their home in your nape, my lips softly brushing the peaks of your mouth, this silken tongue tracing its shape, your hands possessing my hips, urging me into the pulsation of your thickening and hardening flesh?

With your fingers teasing the zip of my dress, the metal teeth groaning in synch with the dirty sax oozing out of the speakers, the straps somehow gliding off my shoulders of their own will and accord, with the aching slowness you edged the bodice over the pert breasts sheathed in diaphanous lace, your tips burning a trail on the ebony silk, on my shivering body, your hands drawing the fabric down, down, down over the taunt line of my belly, easing it over my rocking hips, over the filigree bound tight around me, past the lean, silky legs raised up stiletto high?

With the moment I break away, leaving you lonely and yearning again, walking the path to the bedroom glowing in the lamp light beyond, with the way I meet your gaze over my shoulder, with my lingering form in the doorway as I register your desiring expression, the catch of your breath, the groan from low in your throat, with my position in front of the mirrored wall as I stand waiting for you once more?

With the reflection of our naked bodies, the contrast of your scarlet shaft pressed into my creamy thigh, your arm about my waist, the gentle strength of your hand as you slip in one digit then two then more, as you finger me, as you finger my hot velvet cunt, as my own knees weaken, the wetness dripping, flowing, my sweetness cupped in your palm, the sweat on your brow, the lone bead gliding between my breasts, my head on your shoulder, my body given over, abandoned to your touch, my body intoxicated with pleasure, the first orgasm screaming up through my bones, my gasp, my moan, these lips begging, pleading to be taken, to be fucked, to have you, to have you fuck me, to have you inside me?

With the hour, the minute, the second you finally, finally lay me down, spread me wide, cleave open the pouting lips of my cunt, your glans gleaming with the honey you will indulgently lap later that night, your shaft nudging then plunging to the hilt, to the hilt, to the clutching hilt, no warning, no ceremony only desire, desire, a desire quickly morphed into need, the need to fill me, to feel me, embracing and milking, devouring, devouring you, from the inside, from the inside, my back arching off the now sodden and rumpled cotton sheeting, these arms grasping for earth, your pounding thrusts delivering your force, your weight, your possession, your cock emerging slick and triumphant, your cock buried in so deep neither one of us can think or speak, your cock, your thrusts, my screams ringing into the summer night’s silence, your cock, your thrusts, my screams, your dominance, your passion, your command speaking with precision to my trembling submission?

Where do I begin? Is this where I begin? Do I begin with you? Or do I begin at another beginning?

Do I begin with him?

Do I begin with the other you, with the one, with the man who has haunted this woman, this desire, these pages for what feels like an age? Do I begin with the revelations that should be locked and hidden away?

Do I begin with the fact he invaded me long before you arrived, with the ache in my heart, with the longing in my flesh, with the pain inflicted by his silence and disappearance, the pain I selfishly needed you to comfort and erase?

Do I begin with his spectre, looming, lurking in the corner, the voyeur deliberately conjured to bare witness, to taste the sour bile rising up in his throat, to feel the raw desire and bitter jealousy twisting his guts in a knot as you experience and savour and take me in every way he has always wanted and more, as you slide into me with a groan, as you possess me like a beast, as the walls absorb the sound of your flesh slapping hard from behind, as your sweat pools in my back, your hands a vice on this flesh, fucking me with a passionate brutality that will surely drive him from my soul, from this room at long last?

Do I begin with my hands clasped over my mouth in fear of releasing his name, my lids shut tight, shrouding everything but the visions within me, wanting you, wanting him, wanting him to be you, each deep thrust a hope, each angry plunge an exorcism, a purging of guilt, of jealousy, of obsessive desire running oily-hot through these veins, each blinding high, each resting low, each shuddering orgasm somehow bringing me closer to you both?

Do I begin with your tenderness, the complexity of your caress, with our lovemaking deep in the dark dead of night, with the way my body opened itself to you as I thought of him, as I needed and imagined him beneath my slight form, with the way I straddled your thighs, my delicate fingers wound around his uncut cock, my cunt hovering, my hips descending, this intimate flesh engulfing your heat, taking you to the place where you rightly belong, our bodies distilled to shadows, to sensate silhouettes, my heart reduced to a beating, adoring ache, our sensual rhythm, our mutual pleasure, our sensual rhythm transporting me across the ether, across the air and the lands and the seas vast between us, our sensual rhythm finally delivering me to you and you to me?

Do I begin with this deluge, with this confusion, with this seemingly incoherent muddle of words, with the salty tears, with the sobs now breaking as I sit here and type, as I sit here confessing it all?

If you only knew how I want – need – to devour you, to selfishly savour every inch of your masculine flesh, to sensually then passionately kiss each newly exposed morsel, to draw a glistening trail as my tongue drinks the essence of your skin, to bury my nose in deep, to drown in your musk, your heady scent, to slide my breasts along your hard, thickening shaft, to press my crimson peaks into your dripping head, to take you into my mouth, to take you into my hot little mouth and taste you, truly taste you, to glide you down my throat, to kiss and lick and suck on your cock until you weave your hands through my fiery tresses, until your thighs tense, your stomach knots, your hips thrust, until your orgasm screams out of you, until you roar it out, until you come all over my lips and my tongue, until you cover my shivering nakedness, branding me with your heat, painting me with your seed, my fingers sliding through your slippery cream to absorb every last drop into my lily white skin.

If you only knew how I want and need to devour you in this way, to consume you completely, to have you sink into my very core. And then to have you dress me, to have you cloak these passionate markings in the finery you love so well, to have you take me out into the world, into the politest of society, to have witnesses look upon us, to have them know in their pulsating sexes I am marked as yours, to have you fill my nose each time I shift, each time my body heat releases yet another wave, to have these men and women sniff out your come, our passion now suspended in the air, to have them gaze upon your magnetism, to have them regard your wanton woman, to have them wonder if I’ll indulge us both again right there and then.

It is your gaze, furtive and dark, voracious, unflinching, penetrating, I see reflected back as I stand before the glass slowly unveiling my nakedness, your molten eyes devouring my every detail, my every move, the zipper sliding, the clasps released, the fitted skirt, the satin shirt a tangle at my feet, my shoulders shrugging away the straps, these fingers easing down the lace to reveal the crimson peaks you hunger to take between your lips, my hand cupping the sodden ebony covering my sex, these hips grinding, my mound mashed into this palm, this sensual dance inflaming the ache, intensifying the need to tease away the fabric fused to my scarlet flesh, to have you drop to your knees between my legs brazenly open wide, to have your body marked in my scent, to have your mouth lap at the smoothness of my dripping cunt and the clitoris throbbing, pulsing, longing for your deep tongue kiss, to have you taste me, drink me down, to have you drive me to the screaming edge, to have you against me, buried inside me, to have you possess me with a softness then a violence neither one of us can resist.